


By Any Mark of Favor

by Fire_the_blood_of_ordinary_men



Series: It Was Beautiful [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Implied/Referenced Torture, My flowery language makes this seem tame, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29009109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_the_blood_of_ordinary_men/pseuds/Fire_the_blood_of_ordinary_men
Summary: A collection of really short one-shots that combine to tell about the life and deeds of Himlóm, of the house of Fëanor, as she lives through the first and second ages and eventually dies (but really dramatically as was fitting of her house). The story as told by Galadriel to the fellowship of the Ring in the third age.
Relationships: Thranduil (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: It Was Beautiful [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2128104
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	1. And The Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I figured that I should say something here. First, I want to say that this is a ridiculously complicated AU, that will be (hopefully) explained in more detail by other stories once I write them. If you are confused, feel free to ask any questions and I'll answer them. If it's any comfort, I have the entire story written and will be posting about every two weeks.

It was dinner in Lothlórien, and the fellowship of the ring was eating with the Lady Galadriel, and the Lord Celeborn. The hobbits were of course eating, but the rest of the company was focusing on other manners. Aragorn was agonizing over the path ahead; Boromir was struggling with what the Lady had told him; and Gimli was too entranced with her beauty even to eat. Legolas, unafraid, was talking cheerfully with Galadriel and Celeborn, about things that mattered little to any being but the elves. Boromir finally looked up.

“I give up.” He sighed. “You elves must fear nothing, if your power is this much, my Lady.”

Galadriel laughed. “My power is great, but it is not the greatest among my people. I once knew an elvish queen who could easily best me in her rage.”

Aragorn looked up, called from his worries by her words. “Who among elves is stronger than you?” He asked, puzzled.

The Lady of the Lorien stood up. “Has Legolas told you nothing of his mother?” She asked, amused. The entire fellowship looked at their elvish member, who looked incredibly embarrassed. Galadriel continues, “Of course I speak of Himlóm, queen of what you mortals call the Mirkwood, though it was not called that in her time.”

“In all fairness,” Celeborn interjected, “Whether or not she was ever queen was debatable, given the circumstances.” He stopped, as Galadriel shot him a look.

“I have not heard any stories.” Aragorn commented. “Ranrûth was too grieved over her mother’s passing, and Legolas was too young to know any.” He looked over at his friend, suddenly worried that he had offended Legolas. To his delight, Legolas agreed with him.

“Oh please, Lady Galadriel.” He begged. “I only know her from, and there are so few spoken in anything but whispers.” 

Galadriel looked uncertain. “I do not wish to awaken any grief.” She sighed. “Himlóm was family.”

However, the hobbits had stopped eating at the thought of a good story. “Better to talk about it than just cry.” Pippin said, in one of his few sensible moments.

The Lady smiled. “You are correct. Perhaps,” She said, wistfully, “If my people understood that, then our time would not now be ending.” Looking across at the fellowship, she saw that even Boromir had turned to look, curious at a look at their most mysterious companion’s family. Galadriel then looked to the centerpiece of the table. It was a candlestick, made of mithril, a serpent coiling around the center, with two emeralds as its eyes. ”It begins, I suppose, in Valinor.” 


	2. The Purchase Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's the update you've all been waiting for! The actual story begins here, so be prepared for the usual Fëanárion level violence/drama. Thanks for reading!

I will not now bore you with tales that you already know, of elves, the things they wrought, and why the Noldor left their beloved home. There is one thing, however, that is not common knowledge that is quite important for the story. Makalaurë Fëanárion, who also swore to defend the silmarils, took for his wife Alatatir. She, out of unimaginable love, left Valinor with him.

“In the beginning, there was only starlight and song.” Culwen’s voice echoed through the tent. The elleth smiled at the three elflings staring in awe at her, curious for a story.

Losmírë was the youngest, her blond hair revealing her heritage. She was the only child of Alatatir’s only sister, who had died in battle. The Fëanárions’ had taken in the orphaned girl, and she was a part of the family.

Culwen next turned to the next elfling: Telperinquar. Her smile widened as she looked at her son, the mirror image of his father. His face only slightly revealed her influence, as well as his gleaming, searching eyes.

Last, she turned to Himlóm. The eldest of the three, though not by much, looked impatiently at her. With her ebony hair, she could not have been more different than Losmírë. It was hard to believe that the delicate elfling was heir to the throne. Culwen’s smile faded as she thought of Maitimo’s torment.

She recovered from the thought, and turned back to the elflings. “It was into this twilight world that Aelinelen awoke, eldest of the firstborn. She awoke, and looked into the nearby lake. It was in that water, the surface dotted with the reflections of countless stars, that Aelinelen saw all. All of time, past, present, and future, is revealed to her. Even now, she only tells the future with water she brought from that lake.”

“Isn’t Aelinelen our grandmother?” Losmírë interrupted.

Culwen sighed, resigning herself to the fact that she would not finish the story. “She is the mother of your mothers.”

Himlóm frowned. “So, who is our grandfather?”

“Fëanáro.”

“The other one.”

The elleth groaned. She completely blamed her husband’s side of the family for the elfling’s inquisitiveness. “No one really knows.” She said. “It is likely one of the Sindar, one who was alive at the beginning.”

Her son looked confused. “So Aelinelen is a seer?” He asked.

“Yes.” Culwen responded. “Alatatir is as well, but both of them can also See the past, unlike the typical seer.”

“What about you?” Losmírë interjected. “I heard uncle Tyelkormo say that you know what is to come.”

“That is not because I am a seer.” Culwen explained. “I know what will happen because, for incredibly complicated reasons even I cannot fathom, I am from the future.”

“What?” All of the elflings exclaimed.

She gave a smile. “I am from the future.” She repeated. “Your future is my past, so if I know what is to come, it only means that I studied well. I do have the Sight, but not in the seer way. I can See what is, I cannot be swayed by illusions, or fair words.” 

“But you do know the future.” Himlóm insisted. “Doesn’t that change what you do?”

For just a second, Culwen looked more than just a simple elleth. Then it passed, as she laughed. “Little one,” She said, “There is a burden in knowing what is to come. All you can do is your best.”

~

Thingol’s proclamation brought chaos to the Noldor, all of them. There was anger, outrage, and fear. They could do nothing to protest the banning of their language. It did not take long for the house of Fëanáro to gather, in Maitimo’s halls.

The ellon had recovered well since his dramatic rescue by Findekáno, and now led his house, to the relief of all. He towered over all in the room; his scars making him seem even more imposing. His temper had, for the most part, not changed; he was kind as ever. However, even he looked angry at the news.

“He has no right!” Carnistir snapped.

Makalaurë sighed. “He is angry, rightfully, over the death of his kin. We are on his land, they outnumber us, and we need to trade with them. We must speak Sindarin, whether we like it or not.”

Curufinwë frowned. “What about names? Must we change those as well?”

Everyone exchanged unhappy looks. Himlóm shifted awkwardly. The elleth had just recently come of age, and thus was invited to the meeting. She turned to look at her uncle Maitimo. “Yes.” He replied, bluntly. “I would go, now, to figure that out.”

Himlóm swept out of the meeting, ahead of her unhappy family. The elleth ran to the nearby gardens, where her friends were waiting for word. They all turned to look at her as she approached; her cousins, Losmírë and Telperinquar; Esgaldûr, who loved Losmírë; and Malomë, another dear friend. “What did they say?” Malomë asked, as her eyes filled with fear.

“We will obey Thingol.” Himlóm responded. “And change our names as well, to show our obedience.”

Esgaldûr groaned. Losmírë turned to frown at him. “Why are you so upset? Your name doesn’t change. My name is now Losmîr.”

“Of least it is close.” Telperinquar responded. “Mine is now Celebrimbor.”

“And mine is Camdú.” Malomë added. She turned to Himlóm. “Your name does not change either.”

“My mother’s does.” Himlóm said. “From Alatatir to Galadir. Do you all even know Sindarin well enough to get by?”

The young elves suddenly looked worried, as the extent of the ban set in. Celebrimbor sighed. “My mother speaks it fluently, and her name doesn’t change. Since she is from the future, I suppose we should have expected something like this.”

~

“We leave tomorrow.” Himlóm said. The Fëanorions had begun to disperse, which meant that she would soon part with Celebrimbor. He winced at her news.

“We leave next week.” He responded, quieter. Losmîr, Esgaldûr, and Camdú were all with Maglor’s people, while Celebrimbor would follow his father.

Himlóm gave a faint smile. “I’m sure we will meet again soon.” She said. It was hard for her to ignore the strange feeling that said it would be a long time before the two cousins met. She pushed the fear down. There had been no indication that she was a seer, to Galadir’s joy. Nor did Himlóm wish to tell the future. Even so, something told her to be cautious. 

Celebrimbor stood up. “My father is calling.” He said. “I should go. Goodbye, cousin.”

“Goodbye.”

~

“Himlóm!” The slender elleth looked back at her friend, confused. Losmîr ran up, panting. She did her best to look angry at the bemused Himlóm. “Your father was looking for you.” Himlóm sighed, looking wistfully out the window. Losmîr took a concerned step towards her friend. It was rare to see her in such a state of melancholy, usually it was a struggle to get her playful friend to be serious for a little bit. “Are you okay?” 

Himlóm jolted slightly as she heard the concern in her friend’s voice. “I am all right.” She assured Losmîr. “I just see no point in these endless meetings, learning how to rule a kingdom and such. It would be a better use of my time to flirt with Esgaldûr like you do.” Losmîr flushed red.

“One day,” She replied hotly, “You’ll meet someone. Then you’ll be singing a different tune.” Himlóm laughed.

“I think not. You two are certainly a pair.” She replied, teasingly. Despite this, Himlóm delighted in her friend’s happiness. That did not mean she was serious about it. Himlóm laughed at her friend’s discomfort, then a thought struck her, and the smile faded away.

Losmîr saw this, and grabbed her cousin’s arm. “What is wrong?” She asked urgently. Himlóm jolted, startled out of her thoughts. She shook her head.

“It is nothing.” She insisted.

“It is not nothing.” Losmîr demanded. “Something is clearly troubling you.”

“It is just a dream.”

“A dream?” Losmîr paled. Galadir, unlike her mother, got prophecies from dreams. Himlóm was not old enough yet that the elleth could have not inherited the gift. “What was it?”

Himlóm closed her eyes, remembering. “First I saw you.” Losmîr jolted. “You and Esgaldûr, dead! And I turn and pick up a young elfling, with golden hair.” Himlóm slid down to the ground, bracing herself against the wall. “Then there is a beautiful city, which I do not recognize. But it is on fire, and I can do nothing to save it.” Losmîr dropped next to her friend, a vain attempt to offer comfort. “Next,” She sniffed, through tears, “Is not bad, as much as confusing. A Sindarin elf, one I do not know, offers me a ring.”

She took a breath, gathering her strength. “In the next, I am at a coming of age ceremony for two ellons, identical twins, with black hair.”

“Finally, there is the last image.” Himlóm was shaking, the fear she had hid for so long getting the best of her. “I am between armies of all races, and there are dark tall gates. There is a Maia in terrible black armor. We fight,” She broke off, succumbing to the tears running down her face.

“What is it?” Losmîr asked, concerned. Himlóm did not respond. Losmîr’s concern grew. Her friend was so rarely rattled that her silence was terrifying. “What else did you see?”

Himlóm looked at her friend with tear-filled eyes. “I saw my death.”

~

“Congratulations.” Losmîr blushed as her cousin appeared behind her. “I thought that Esgaldûr would never ask you to marry him, yet here we are.”

“Excuse me.” Esgaldûr appeared beside his new wife. “You greatly underestimate me, Himlóm.” Losmîr laughed as her husband and best friend quarreled. Himlóm’s despair had been temporary; nobody had even noticed her distress. Even Himlóm, when time had gone by, felt that it was only a dream. She was Singing now, a song of joy for the new couple. At her voice the flowers became brighter, the trees began to grow, the people were even happier. Only Losmîr saw the elleth’s gaze follow her mother’s path. 

Losmîr edged closer as Himlóm went to talk to Galadir. “Mother,” Himlóm began, then hesitated, “Have you ever seen your death?” Galadir closed her eyes, before looking at her daughter.

“Darling,” The elleth began, “I have prayed that you would not get my gift, that the future would be a surprise, unpleasant or not. But for you to ask that, then the Valar have ignored my petition.” Galadir’s eyes became pained, as if she saw something that no one else did. “And it is because of that, that I will not answer your question. To know your own death,” She continued, “Is a terrible burden.”

~

Esgaldûr stood proudly by her side. Losmîr hoped that she could convince him to do something else after a time. Before that however, she had to give the news to her dearest friend.  
“An elfling!” Himlóm gasped. “You and Esgaldûr are going to be parents?” She put a hand to her forehead, dramatically. “Save this next generation.” Losmîr pushed her friend, teasingly.

“We are more competent than that.” Himlóm smirked. Losmîr rejoiced at her reaction. It hadn’t been that long since Esgaldûr and she had gotten married, and the cousins hadn’t talked much since then. Himlóm seemed to be taking her mother’s words well, and banished the strange dreams from her head. Esgaldûr leaned forward.

“Elflings are a blessing, and surely are a sign of good things to come.” Losmîr agreed, laughing. Neither of them noticed the slight discontent on Himlóm’s face. Thoughts of the dream had not yet been banished.

~

Losmîr and Himlóm sat, sipping tea and ignoring the relative chaos around them. Losmîr’s son, Glorfindel, even at his young age, caused trouble wherever he went. Himlóm laughed at his antics, amazed by his wonder of all things.

Her smile faded as Losmîr turned to scold her son. She had known, even when she had first held him, that Glorfindel was the elfling of her dreams. Since he was real, then that meant everything else was. Himlóm felt fear rising inside her. She did not want to trouble her cousin, so she spoke no more of her dreams. To her fear, she only saw more.

Her, walking down the halls, Singing as usual. A door left ajar; she went to close it. Inside were Losmîr and Esgaldûr, dead, her father’s guards surrounding them, blood on their swords. She turned and picked up a sobbing Glorfindel. And then she woke. Himlóm sighed. “How do you accuse someone of murder,” She whispered, “When the crime has not yet happened.”

Losmîr looked back at her. “What?” She asked, as a messenger burst into the room.

He dropped to the ground, out of respect for his lord’s daughter or exhaustion, Himlóm could not tell. There was blood dripping off his robes, and he was gasping for breath. “My lady,” He turned to Himlóm, “My patrol was attacked by orcs, there are many injured.” Himlóm’s heart was full of dread. She was a healer, yes, but off duty. There would need to be grievous injuries indeed to request her help. She flinched as the messenger met her eyes. His were full of pity, and grief. “It is your mother, the lady Galadir.”

Himlóm did not listen to the rest of his message, instead racing through the hallways, to the healing rooms. Outside was her father sobbing, as his advisors attempted to comfort him. Her heart stopped. Her father never cried, ever. The grief that had filled him was in the air, so thick you could touch it. Her eyes filled with tears.

Maedhros looked at her, grieving for his sister-in-law’s fate. “She wants to see you, Himlóm.” He said. Hesitantly, he added, “You should hurry; it will not be long now.”

She stifled a wail of grief as she passed by her father into the healing rooms. Lying in one of the beds was her mother, calm compared to the misery of Maglor. The beautiful elf was dying, her body pierced by many swords. Galadir felt grief, not for herself, but for what it would do to her family. She embraced her sobbing daughter.

“Darling,” She began. Himlóm looked at her with tear-filled eyes.

“Do not speak.” Himlóm begged. “It will make your injuries worse.”

Galadir laughed at the thought. “It can’t get any worse than fatal, my dear.” She pointed out. “There is something I must tell you.” Himlóm started. “And I will finally answer the question you once asked me.”

“All seers have several visions at the beginning, their great visions. They are large turning points, some good, and some bad.” Galadir looked at her daughter, eyes filled with sorrow. “I also saw my death as a child; this moment has been a long time in coming.”

Himlóm sat down, into a chair by the bed. “Losmîr and Esgaldûr are to die.” She whispered in shock. Galadir raised a shaking hand to brush her daughter’s cheek.

“My beautiful daughter,” She whispered, “To think of others before yourself is your greatest strength.”

“It is no strength!” Himlóm exclaimed. “If I were strong then I could prevent what is to come!”

“No one can.” Galadir responded. She grasped Himlóm’s hands. “Protect those you love, my dear, but do not get lost in grief.”

With that she died. Even nature mourned for the death of Galadir, wife of Maglor; the weather grew cold and harsh, and flowers and trees wilted and died. Far away, in Valinor, the Valar wept for the death of one who did not deserve it, who suffered out of love for another.

Himlóm left her mother’s side, weeping. She went to her mother’s rooms, a vain attempt to console herself. She curled up in a comfortable chair, sobbing. After a length, she looked up to see a note addressed to her on a nearby side table. The young elleth picked it up, hand shaking. It was in her mother’s graceful handwriting.

“My dear daughter,” It said, “I leave to you this candlestick. It was given to me by my mother on my wedding day, and although I must give it to you early, you will give it to your daughter on her wedding day.” Himlóm looked up from the paper at her heirloom. It was a candlestick, made of mithril, a serpent coiling around the center, with two emeralds as eyes.

She took it, and began to Sing a song of great grief, that would cause all around her to weep. And she Saw that she would Sing it twice more before the end of her days.

~

Himlóm let out a sigh as she left the crowded healing rooms, blood on her robes from another lost life. She began to walk to her quarters to change, Singing as she went. Passing the throne room, she flinched as her father came out.

He had reacted to her mother’s death with fury, blaming orcs for her death, sending patrols out to kill them, not just to defend the people. Maglor was becoming increasingly paranoid, accusing loyal elves of betraying him at the slightest sign, sometimes an imagined one. Himlóm was worried about him, and about the people that served him. It seemed that no one could win in the relentless pursuit. She had pushed all her visions to the back of her mind. There was no time for that now.

~

She walked through the halls late at night, Singing, her dreams too disturbed by visions to last. Looking ahead, she saw a door ajar. And it filled her with fear, reminding her of all the things that she had been trying to ignore. “Losmîr.” She gasped, and ran into the room.

Inside was a scene she had Seen countless times. Losmîr, her sweet, beloved cousin, lying dead, her husband beside her. Maglor’s guards, who had always been so kind to their lord’s daughter, stood over them, blood on their swords and garment. Himlóm looked over to where she knew Glorfindel was hiding, and he threw himself into her arms. She turned and walked out; her message clear. The Magloriel, whose laughter and songs used to brighten up her father’s halls, would do so no more.

Himlóm stalked back to her room, fuming. She could feel Glorfindel shaking and crying in her arms. There was an unfamiliar feeling inside of her, a rage that was growing by the moment. Glorfindel only sobbed, curled up in her arms. Her heart broke when she realized what had to happen, how much more he would suffer because of what was to come.

She placed the elfling on her bed. He was now quiet at seeing her distress. Taking a bag, she put clothes and healing supplies in it. A servant appeared at the door. “Your father wishes to see you.” They said, hesitantly. 

Himlóm took up her bag. “And I wish to see him.” She responded; her voice cold. Adding her mother’s candlestick to the bag, she called Glorfindel to his feet, and the two left the room. 

They walked in silence to the throne room. Outside was Camdú. “Is it really true?” Camdú asked. “Are Losmîr and Esgaldûr really. . .” The elleth let out a sob at Himlóm’s nod. And Himlóm had an idea.

“Camdú,” She said urgently. Her friend looked up at her. “Camdú, I need you to take care of Glorfindel.” Both Camdú and Glorfindel looked up at her, surprised. “Please.” Camdú nodded, and picked up the little elfling.

“Himlóm?” Glorfindel called, his voice filled with betrayal, as Camdú carried him away. Himlóm felt tears on her face, as if this last loss was enough to despair about.

“I am sorry.” She whispered, with a voice too quiet for even Camdú to hear. “It is better for you to be raised by another, then to possibly die in this forced exile I will choose.” With that she entered the throne room, several people curiously trailing behind her.

Inside were her father and uncle. Maglor obviously furious, Maedhros looking like he wished he was not there. Himlóm stopped her father’s accusations with a glare, before beginning. “No longer will I live in these halls knowing the cruelty that lurks within. I will wander these barren lands instead, and find sanctuary in another’s realm.”

Her father was shocked beyond words. Maedhros, seeing his brother was not going to respond, turned to his niece. “What of Glorfindel?” He asked.

Himlóm winced. “He will be safe with Camdú.” She vowed. The elleth turned, and began to exit the halls, but paused at the last moment. She turned back to the Fëanorions. Even the most hardened of those present flinched at the fire burning in her eyes. And she spoke with a strength and wisdom that so suddenly came into her voice.

“When we next meet,” She said, addressing her father, “There will be an attack of orcs, and the remnants of the people of Fëanor will be destroyed.” There was a silence in those halls, for she spoke of the deaths of those present. Himlóm took a deep breath, before finishing in an almost trembling voice. “This is my first proclamation.”

With that the Magloriel departed from her father’s halls, and never again entered them.


	3. Such Uses Send

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another interlude in which Galadriel talks about the story with the fellowship.

“Do you want some tea?” The entire fellowship jumped at Galadriel’s question.

“That was it?” Aragorn exclaimed, in absolute disbelief.

The Lady laughed. “Of course not.” She motioned for a servant to pour them all cups. “My voice was weary, and it was a good stopping point.”

Sam looked at Galadriel in wonder. “Your voice was weary?” He asked, pleased by the opportunity to learn more about elvish ways.

Legolas rolled her eyes. “She has not worked near hard enough to be weary.” He informed the others. “She was merely thinking ahead in her story; Gondolin was well known for its tea.”

All the hobbits looked up at the mention of food. “Tea?” Pippin asked hopefully.

Celeborn laughed. “There will be tea in the next part.” He told them. “Along with wise kings and joyous songs and tales of great valor.”

Boromir frowned. “I know not of these elvish names, what is this Gondolin you speak of?”

“It is one of the elvish strongholds of the first age.” Aragorn informed his fellow man. “It was ruled by Turgon Fingolfinion.” His eyes went to the stars as he continued. “Joyous are the songs about life in the hidden city, and of great sadness the songs of its fall. Even I have heard stories about Himlóm’s deeds in that great city.”

“Aye.” Legolas agreed. “It irritated my father’s father to no end. He depended on respect to rule his realm, but my mother would never give allegiance to any but her king, Turgon.”

“She rated even the high king of the exiled Noldor, Gil-galad, below him.” Galadriel smiled, remembering. “Though Gil-galad was so much younger than her, she could never quite see him as the great elf-lord that he was.” She shook her head, clearing it. “But I get ahead of myself again.”

“Why?” Everyone turned to look at Merry. “Why would she respect Turgon more than even her father-in-law?” He continued.

“Because Oropher was so annoying.” Galadriel muttered. Then, as if she hadn’t just insulted Legolas’s grandfather (Legolas did not care, he had heard similar things before) went on. “That is the subject of our next story. Now, when we last left Himlóm, she had left her father for the wilderness. But her gift of prophecy had only gotten stronger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for not posting this yesterday (I'm trying to do it every two weeks). I have no excuse beyond forgetting and procrastination.


	4. Merely Upon Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have realized that updating every two weeks is only an approximation, so be warned. You would think that I would already be familiar with my own forgetfulness, but it surprises me every time. Enjoy this part of the story, in which Himlóm lives in Gondolin (and many things happen that she wish would not).

Himlóm took a heavy breath. Even she, one of the firstborn, could not go on forever. She had walked for days, not sleeping in fear of attack. Her rations were almost out, and water was far too scarce. She only had one hope. Eagles circled above her, concerned about the intruder. 

She smiled, and looked up to them. “I am here.” Himlóm told them, missing company enough to talk to them. “I am heading for the hidden city, to plead my case to its king, Turgon.” She broke off as her ears picked up on the faint sound of a patrol surrounding her. “Do not bother hiding.” She called. “I already know that you are there.”

The patrol stepped out from behind the rocks, some looking ashamed over being heard. The eagles flew away, confident that the patrol was enough. The leader, a dark-haired elf, stepped forward. “I am Árëalda.” He announced. Glaring at Himlóm, he moved in order to better reach his sword. “How do you know where Gondolin is?”

Himlóm smiled at the confirmation of her visions. “I am Himlóm of the Noldor.” She explained. “And do not fear, the location of your city only exists in rumors and myths. I am only here because I Saw it.”

Árëalda frowned. “You could not have come before without our knowledge.”

She laughed. “I have never been here before. But I have Seen it.”

“Ah!” Another elf’s eyes lit up. “You are a seer.” He put his sword in its sheath. “I am Ecthelion of the Fountain.” He added respectfully.

Himlóm nodded. “I am a relation of your king. I was hoping that he could offer me aid.”

Árëalda and Ecthelion look at each other, before nodding. “We will take you to see him.” Árëalda told her reluctantly. The entire patrol decided to head back, anxious about the mysterious interloper.

Ecthelion walked beside her, chatting cheerfully. “Our lady Idril has the gift of prophecy as well.” Himlóm nodded tiredly. Her luggage was heavy, and was not becoming any lighter. Still, she looked curiously at Ecthelion, the warrior being so different from the people of Fëanor. The ellon had noticed her fatigue, and smiled. “We are here!” He proclaimed, and led her into the city.

Himlóm gasped, her visions had not shown her the full glory of the hidden city. The city, so white, was dotted with gardens and singing elves.

Sudden recognition, and grief, hit her. Gondolin was the city from her second great vision. She remembered her own words. “Then there is a beautiful city, which I do not recognize. But it is on fire, and I can do nothing to save it.” Horror filled her as she began to realize what a great tragedy it would be for this great elvish stronghold to fall.

Árëalda coughed pointedly, and Himlóm jumped, before beginning to follow him through the city. She kept her head held high, even as rumors about her began to spread, the pride of the Noldor raising its head. He led her to a grand building in the center of town. Casting a final look at the city she knew would fall, she entered.

An elf lord was sitting on an oak chair, a throne of a more humble king. An elleth stood behind him, her eyes filled with curiosity. The royal family, Himlóm thought, Turgon and Idril. 

Turgon, surprisingly, smiled. “You are the daughter of Makalaurë Fëanorion and Alatatir.” His smile grew even wider at her surprise. “You look very much like your father, although you very much have a Teleri air.”

Árëalda stepped forward, rage in his demeanor. “She is one of Fëanáro’s line, why is she still here?”

Himlóm glared at him. “Not all of us endorse the kinslayings, or the oath that led to them. My powers are still growing, but I See very clearly that it will be the destruction of us all if someone does not intervene.”

Árëalda took a step back at the heat of her fury. Turgon however, rose to his feet. “You are family; of course, you may stay here. If I recall correctly,” He said thoughtfully, “Cáno was known for his music. I have no doubt that you too have a voice of gold, so you can be the minstrel of my court.” He looked directly into her eyes, brown meeting brown. “The minstrel of Gondolin.” 

~

Himlóm sat quietly on the cliff, looking at the place that had become her home. Ecthelion had taken her under his wind, and she had just begun to learn to fight, under the excitable warrior. Itarillë and she had become fast friends, always ready to share a song or two. But even now, she could not banish thoughts of the future. Or of the past, Himlóm thought bitterly, tears filling her eyes at the thought of Losmírë.

“I thought I would find you here.” She jumped as Turukáno appeared behind her.

“My lord!” She gasped, jumping to her feet.

He shook his head. “There is no need to bear with the formalities, little cousin.” Concern filled his eyes as he looked at her distressed face. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing.” Himlóm responded, before sighing. “I was only thinking of Losmírë, her husband, and her son.”

Turukáno nodded. She had long ago told him the full events that had brought her here, away from the ears of others. “You cannot See if you will meet Glorfindel again?” He asked sympathetically.

She shook her head. “It is not that.” She said miserably. “It is everything. How am I supposed to live my life, when all I see is the future?” How am I supposed to enjoy myself, when I see the terrible things that will happen to all, even you and this city.” She broke off, sobbing.

And it was then that Turukáno, king of Gondolin, realized that his city would fall, and he with it.

But he took a deep breath, and held out his burden to the slender elleth before him.

She looked up at him, confused. It was a sword, long, sharp, and full of power before it even had an owner. Turukáno met her gaze. “It was made by Itarillë, for her greatest friend.” He pushed the sword into Himlóm’s arms. “It is yours.”

“What good is a sword for me?” She asked. “What can I do to prevent what is to come?”

“You cannot.” Turukáno told her. She looked at him in surprise. “I have known enough with the gift to know that the future cannot be changed. But you can See far farther and clearer than any other, and this gift is not for nothing.”

“It is no gift.” Himlóm spat those words out. “It is a curse beyond reckoning.”

“There is a reason.” He insisted. “You can change nothing, but you can advise others in their ways, and comfort them in their troubles. Your gift has the potential to shape lives for the better, if you only would use it for that purpose.”

She looked doubtfully at the sword. “How can I help anyone?” She asked, so quietly he almost did not hear it.

Turukáno smiled in response. “It only begins with a single action.”

~

Himlóm had managed to fade into the background, among the excited court. The reappearance of Írissë, along with the existence of her son, Maeglin, had caused quite the stir. The elleth inwardly winced at the joy on Turukáno’s face. She knew how this would end.

The door swung open, revealing an angry Avari elf. “Where are my wife and son?” He growled. Everyone looked at an equally angry Írissë.

“I am not yours, Eöl.” Írissë hissed. “I will go where I like.”

“Sister,” Turukáno said. “That psychology is what got us here. He can stay here if he likes, since we are kin.”

“I will serve no king.” Eöl said, eyes unfriendly.

Ecthelion walked up behind Himlóm. “What does he want us to do?” The ellon said, with a voice too quiet for anyone else to hear. The minstrel shrugged. They both shot to attention as yells ran out in front of them. 

While they had been talking amongst themselves, Eöl had attempted to kill Maeglin, hitting Írissë instead. He had also managed to kill six guards, who had come to Írissë’s aid. The Avari ellon now approached Turukáno, the king’s eyes wide at the carnage Eöl had left behind. “I will be controlled by no one.” Eöl growled. “I will not be. . .”

His words were cut short, as Himlóm came up and knocked him out with her newly-gifted sword. They watched in silence as he crumpled to the floor. “He will be executed for this.” She commented.

“No!” Maeglin yelled. “Don’t kill him.”

“I am sorry, nephew.” Turukáno said. “He killed several guards in cold blood. I wish it could be else wise, but there can be no exceptions for anyone.” Maeglin only scowled.

~

Itarillë followed Himlóm, bending as low as possible below the rocks. The two elleths and Ecthelion were on a scouting mission, to discover more about a group of orcs that had wandered near Gondolin. Ecthelion had joked that the patrol was an attempt by Maeglin to get rid of his least favorite people. Itarillë had agreed, and even Turukáno had laughed.

The group stopped as they caught sight of the orcs. There was a sizable number, too many for them to ambush, but Himlóm tightened her grip on her sword anyway. Something was wrong. She looked in horror as she realized that they were torturing a captive elf. His body was covered with burns and bruises. 

Itarillë gasped. “He looks so young.” The lady of Gondolin looked in concern at Himlóm. Her friend’s eyes were wide with shock, like she was seeing something that the other two did not. Himlóm slowly stood up, unsheathing her still unnamed sword. 

“We need to do something.” She said, her voice filled with a rare tone of determination. Itarillë and Ecthelion exchanged surprised looks, and Himlóm ignored them. She looked once more at the young elf, remembering a time when Losmírë and she had drunk tea, as a young elfling ran around them. Glorfindel looked achingly like his mother, still with his unique golden hair. Something steeled inside her, a determination that she would protect her cousin’s son.

The small group, Itarillë and Ecthelion having decided that nothing would stop an enraged Himlóm, crept closer to the orc encampment. They were close enough to hear everything; the orcs mocking jeers, and Glorfindel’s cries of pain. Even Ecthelion, the calmest of the group, was filled with rage. And they attacked as one.

Itarillë swung her twin knives, eyes flaming with a righteous anger. She cut down several immediately, always fighting two orcs at a time. Ducking to avoid a would-be deadly blow, the Turukániel was a formidable adversary. More so was Ecthelion. His sword looked back and forth with powerful blows, clearing a path in the orcs. None could even touch him, let alone injure the elf of the Fountain. Just as powerful as her friends was Himlóm. 

The graceful minstrel of Gondolin went straight to the aid of her young relative, cutting down his tormentors with terrifying ease. She Sang a different song, a war song. Orcs fell down at the sound of her voice. Soon the orcs were dead, all but one. The orc looked at Himlóm, with hatred in its eyes. She glared back, standing over the creature.

“Who are you?” The orc asked her.

“I,” She said, “Am Himlóm Magloriel.” She pulled up her sword, gleaming with the blood of orcs. “This is Orcrist.” Looking straight at the orc, she continued. “It will be feared in its own right, because of all the orcs that will fall to it while in my keeping. For this action, my wrath will never cease towards the creatures of Morgoth.” And Himlóm, in that moment, looked like the daughter of a Fëanárion. 

The orc, already injured fatally, died then. She turned back to Glorfindel, that a concerned Ecthelion was already bent over. He looked up at her. “This doesn’t look good.” Ecthelion said grimly, as Himlóm knelt beside him. The young elf couldn’t move an inch without severe pain, but he was conscious.

“Glorfindel,” She whispered, “You are going to be okay; you are safe.” Himlóm hesitated. “Do you know who I am?”

Glorfindel opened one of his eyes. “Himlóm.” He breathed, in relief. The elleth smile, relieved. Itarillë rested a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“What are we going to do?” Itarillë whispered. “We cannot move him alone, and there will be no patrol to help for many hours.” Himlóm smiled.

“Maeglin is easy to bait.” The elleth said, simply. The three looked up to a cliff nearby, where a Gondolin patrol, headed by the nephew of Turukáno himself. Looking in awe at the dead orcs, they made their way down to the small group. Himlóm gave Itarillë a satisfied look, before turning to Maeglin. “I thought you wouldn’t come.” She commented, smirking.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The dark-eyed warrior countered. “Even I listen to you.” The elleth started to stand up, before sitting back suddenly with a groan. 

“Himlóm!” Itarillë exclaimed. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” Himlóm responded sleepily. “I am just so tired.”

“Tired?” Ecthelion asked, carefully supporting his friend. “Why?”

The Gondolindrim minstrel yawned. “I haven’t worked so hard in years.” She explained. “I used a lot of energy for that song.”

“Wait!” Maeglin called. “Who’s the kid?” He gestured to Glorfindel, who was now unconscious.

Himlóm looked at Maeglin. “Tell the king he is,” She hesitated, thinking, “The Esgaldûrion.” Then she fell asleep.

~

“What of his foster mother?” Glorfindel had been helped as best as possible, and was resting in a guest room. Turukáno had gone to see the young elf, and found Himlóm there. She was still tired, but refused to go to sleep. She looked down at his question.

“Malomë is a loyal friend, but she could not prevent him from growing up, from being obligated to fight Morgoth.” Himlóm sighed, before looking at the object in her hands. It was a candlestick, made of mithril, a serpent coiling around the center, with two emeralds as eyes.

“Your mother’s?” Turukáno asked gently, gesturing to the heirloom. The elleth nodded stiffly. The elf king sat down beside his minstrel. He looked cautiously at her. “What of your father?”

Himlóm let out a faint smile. “Better.” She said quietly. “My departure shocked him back into sanity.” Meeting her king’s eyes, she continued. “He deeply regrets it.” Both elves looked away, lost in thoughts of things long past. Eventually, Himlóm looked back to Turukáno. “You do not have a sword.” She observed quietly.

Turukáno nodded. Many elves had wondered about his lack of weaponry. Most assumed that there was a philosophical reason behind it, but the reality was much simpler. “I have seen no sword beautiful enough to wield.” He told her honestly.

She looked at him in shock. “That is it?” Surprise filled her voice at his admission. “That is easy to remedy.”

“It is?” Turukáno responded, a question in his voice.

His minstrel looked back at him, smiling. “It is.”

~

Himlóm took a deep breath as she stepped into the forge. Although it was not a talent she used often, her metal work was beautiful. She laughed to herself. It was odd that she scorned Fëanáro and his obsession with his creations so much, when she took so much after his side. She went to work, and her mind began to wander.

Her great vision concerning the fall of Gondolin had only become clearer. There she was, fighting Maeglin, who fell off a cliff. She ran away from that battle, to the overlook where Turukáno had given her Orcrist. Idril appeared, carrying a raven-haired elfling, his eyes filled with fear. They both turned to look as a balrog struck Turukáno, who fell off a cliff.

The minstrel turned her attention to her work in time to perfect it. It was a beautiful sword, truly fit for a king. Himlóm forced down the pride that filled her at the sight of it. “It will soon be lost for millennia.” She muttered.

“What?” Himlóm jumped as Turukáno himself appeared behind her. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the sword. “That is beautiful.” He breathed.

She smiled at his wonder. “It is a gift for you, my lord.” She told him. “I presume it is beautiful enough to use.” Turukáno looked at her, eyes full of gratitude. “Its name is Glamdring.”

~

Orcrist was making good work. Himlóm knew that the battle would fail, that it would be known forever as Nirnaeth Arnoediad, but she would follow Turukáno, even to death; especially since she knew that Gondolin would last through today.

Taking advantage of a small break in the fighting, she weaved her way through the armies, coming face to face with Celebrimbor. Her cousin looked thin, more stressed after his disownment of their family. He looked relieved at the sight of her. “I’m glad I have some sane relatives left.” He quipped.

“Very funny.” Himlóm said, sarcastically. “I have something I need to tell you.” He nodded at her words, as both of them became serious. “Nargothrond will fall. When Agarwaen son of Úmarth comes to Orodreth, you should leave for the isle of Balar.”

“That’s his name?”

“Not actually, but that is what he will call himself.” Celebrimbor looked relieved, that name was strange even by elvish standards. They both turned around as the sound of fighting got nearer. Himlóm readied Orcrist. “The Fëanárions approach.” She said. “And Morgoth has come.”

Her cousin looked horrified. “This is a trap.” He groaned. “They were ready for us the entire time.”

The assembled armies watched in horror as the fallen Vala stepped into the clearing. “You dare challenge me!” He roared. Himlóm bowed a goodbye to her cousin, before sneaking back to Turukáno’s people. Morgoth hefted up his hammer. “You are all so quiet when you come face to face with. . .”

He was interrupted by an arrow, flying so fast that even he barely dodged. Everyone spun around to see Culwen, at the head of the Fëanorion forces, wielding her massive longbow. The elleth grabbed another arrow from her quiver. “I will not be silent.” She hissed.

Another arrow was loosed, and Morgoth let out a cry of rage. Culwen ran to meet him, running circles around the Vala, shooting off arrows. Himlóm felt admiration for her brave aunt, who would not win this fight, and knew it. “I know what will become of you.” Culwen said. “In my time, you are a tale told to children to frighten them.”

“Lies!” Morgoth raised his hammer, as Culwen paused beside him. She reached again for an arrow, but her hand grasped empty air. Her face flicked with something (fear, regret, resignation) Himlóm did not know, as she realized that her arrows were all spent.

Himlóm looked away as the hammer swung down; she knew there would be no escape. The Magloriel only heard Curufin’s pained cry at his wife’s death, her uncle’s agony ripping through the battlefield. Turukáno turned to his people. “Run!” The king yelled. “This battle is over.” 

~

The court of Turukáno was in turmoil. There had been rumors that a man had entered the hidden city. Only Himlóm was calm, sipping a cup of tea in the middle of the chaos. It was made worse by the absence of Turukáno, who had gone to observe the security of their borders.

“Did you know he was coming?” Glorfindel came up from behind her. The golden-haired elf had long since recovered; he had fought so valiantly that Turukáno had named him a lord, of the House of the Golden Flower.

“Yes.” Himlóm responded quietly. “I have known for a long time.” At that moment Voronwë entered, closely followed by a tall being, with sandy-brown hair. Itarillë and Maeglin went out to meet the pair. Himlóm leaned over to Ecthelion. “I’ll bet you Orcrist that Itarillë ends up with the man.”

“No one is crazy enough to bet against you.” Her friend responded, as Maeglin’s angry voice became clear. “But perhaps someone should help him.”

Himlóm sighed, before gliding over to the group. “Is there a problem?” She asked calmly.

Maeglin spun around to face her. “This fool,” He said, gesturing to a terrified Voronwë, “Has led a stranger into Gondolin.”

“Neither you nor I were born here.” The elleth reminded him. At this, Maeglin’s eyes filled with rage. He stepped forward so the two of them were face to face.

“What did you say?” He growled. The court was silent now, everyone watching the pair. Voronwë ran off, and Itarillë dragged the man to a safe distance.

Himlóm met his gaze. “I said the truth.” She replied coldly. The pair stared at each other, both unwilling to make the first move. Turukáno walked in then. He ran up to the confrontation. 

“What is going on here?” He yelled, angry.

Maeglin turned to face his uncle. “She insulted my mother!”

“I did nothing of the sort.” Himlóm shot back. “I only reminded him that neither of us was born here. How that happened is,” She paused, “Complicated. But any insults were completely imagined.”

Turukáno sighed at their protests. He ignored both of them, as Himlóm went back to her tea. Maeglin followed him, as he went up to the man. “You are from Ulmo?” The king asked. The man nodded, silent in his awe of the elvish king. “What is your name?”

“I am Tuor.” 

~

“I have only had bad visions as of late.” Himlóm sighed at Itarillë’s proclamation. The minstrel carefully picked up her friend’s son, dear Eärendil. He was not old at all in Himlóm’s great vision, so she knew the fall of Gondolin would be soon. There was sadness beyond measure in knowing that her home would soon fall. Itarillë noticed her sadness. “You know something; you have Seen something.”

Himlóm nodded. Itarillë breathed a sigh of relief. Knowing that another felt what she felt took a load off of her shoulders. “I will build an exit.” Itarillë proclaimed. “A secret one, so we can escape from the destruction.”

“That would be wise.” Her friend responded. Itarillë nodded. She took her son again, and began to leave. “Itarillë,” Himlóm called. The lady of Gondolin turned back, surprised. “Build it quick.”

~

Himlóm let out a sigh. She had agreed to meet Maeglin just outside the hidden city, on the day of the Gates of Summer. Missing the festivities was a grand sacrifice, and Maeglin hadn’t even bothered to come on time. She looked out, and her heart stopped.

There was a great army, of orcs and balrogs, marching for Gondolin. It was led by a Maia. It was that day that Himlóm Magloriel first saw Sauron, who would one day slay her. She knew that she would never forget that it was he that led the armies against Gondolin. And she heard someone come to stand beside her.

“They should have made me heir.” Maeglin said, coldly, as he watched Morgoth’s armies march on his hometown.

“You are insane.” Maeglin glared at the minstrel of Gondolin. And the warning bells of Gondolin rang out. Himlóm swung Orcrist at her king’s nephew, and began driving him backwards. She knew how this would end. Maeglin countered her, and the two began fighting, dangerously close to the edge.

“I only want power.” The dark-eyed elf growled. “What is wrong about that?” Then his eyes filled with fear, as he took one step too far. He let out a scream as he fell to his death. Himlóm’s eyes filled with grief.

“There is no power,” She whispered, “Only illusions of it.” She ran away, to the overlook where Turukáno had given her Orcrist. Gondolin, beautiful Gondolin, was on fire, overrun by orcs and balrogs. Itarillë appeared behind her, carrying raven-haired Eärendil, his eyes filled with fear. “We need to evacuate!” Himlóm yelled to her friend. “We have been betrayed!” Itarillë nodded, then her eyes widened. Himlóm spun around, just in time to see a balrog striking Turukáno, who fell off a cliff, too far to survive.

Itarillë let out a sob at her father’s death, but Himlóm was filled with rage. And she began to Sing. Their allies gained new power at her voice, and their enemies grew weak and tired. Finally, she faced the balrog who had felled Turukáno. She fought it, its fiery whip against Orcrist. The battle was long, but finally she slew it. But she looked around, and knew that Gondolin had fallen. 

The minstrel of Gondolin let out one last verse, before fleeing the city as well; another of her great visions fulfilled.

The survivors ran as fast as possible, just trying to get away from their former home. Himlóm was filled with relief at the sight of the others. Itarillë looked back at her. “Where is Maeglin?” The lady asked, concerned despite her hatred of him, for her cousin.

“He is dead.” Himlóm responded curtly. She sighed. “He was the traitor.” Itarillë’s eyes filled with regret, as she tried to comfort Eärendil through her own grief. And a scream rose from the back of the group.

There was a balrog, clothed in fire. Glorfindel, who had brought up the rear, turned to face it. And Himlóm Saw what was to come. She looked at the sky, at Thorondor circling above it all, and closed her eyes. The death of Glorfindel she did not see, though she looked as Thorondor brought his body up.

The refugees fled far, as far as they could. Eventually they could flee no more, and stopped for a short rest. And she Sang her song of grief for the second time that had been first at the death of Alatatir. She Saw that she would Sing it once more before the end of her days.


End file.
